


Deeds to Make Heaven Cry

by Wagontrain



Series: Shakespeare Retold Through Video Games [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-13
Updated: 2017-09-13
Packaged: 2018-12-23 16:25:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11993541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wagontrain/pseuds/Wagontrain
Summary: While the Redguard Ohlir has proven himself to be both Skyrim's Dovahkiin and its most fearsome champion, he only begins to suspect the conspiracies arrayed against him.





	Deeds to Make Heaven Cry

This is a story told to me by my mother, who heard it from her father. It is the answer she gave when I asked her why our roads are patrolled by milk-drinking Bretons and Argonians who frot trees, and why elf longboats lurk in the waters just beyond our shores. The true sons and daughters of Skyrim, she told me, remember that Skyrim belongs to the Nords. Some forget that, though.

The story is set soon after the time of troubles. The children of Skyrim spilled their own blood, and the dragons returned. You know the prophecy. As was foretold by the Elder Scrolls, the Dragonborn rose to fight Alduin. Our savior, however, was not a Nord. Instead he was a Redguard, and a criminal ordered to be executed for his crimes. The Dragonborn rose above his honorless nature, did battle with the World-Eater and triumphed. After this he sought out and made war against noble Ulfric Stormcloak, devastated Windhelm and ending any hope of a proud and independent Skyrim. 

In the two years that followed, weakness spread. The Empire called it peace and talked of welcoming us Nords back, as if we had merely been lost in the woods rather than warring for what is ours. Balgruuf the Greater was still Jarl of Whiterun in that time. He was a timid man; even worse than his throwing his lot in with the Imperials during the civil war was the weeks of worthless indecision that preceded his betrayal. On this day, Balgruuf was traveling to Solitude intent on wooing the widow-queen of Skyrim, Elisif the Fair (the less said of the traitoress the better, other than this: never let it be said that Talos cannot mete out fit justice!) 

Balgruuf was accompanied by his housecarl, the Dunmer Irileth. That he chose an outlander as his right hand was bad enough, but a dark elf makes a particularly egregious choice. The Dunmer’s own tales claim that they were once pale of skin and eye, before they committed some betrayal so unforgivable that their skin darkened and their eyes reddened. And Irileth was an exemplar of her kind; deceitful, vicious, and utterly without honor. 

The weather was clear when the party arrived at the Blue Palace. Balgruuf entered the throne room and beheld Elisif upon her husband’s throne with her steward Falk Firebeard and Rikke, liaison from the Imperial Legion in attendance. Many hours had Balgruuf spent cloistered with bards, seeking the words that could seduce Elisif (because all knew his deeds could not impress the most naïve virgin maiden). “Dear Elisif!” he proclaimed. “I come before you not as a Jarl, but as a man entranced by your beauty. To call you ‘the Fair’ is an injustice. Dibella herself, goddess of love and affection, could scarcely compare to your visage.” He produced an amulet bearing the sigil of Mara, offering it to her. “Join me, Elisif, in marriage.” 

“Oh, Balgruuf,” Elisif replied, not unkindly. “Your words fall on happily deaf ears. For this past Fredas I made off with my secret love, and we promised ourselves to one another in ceremonies both traditional and foreign.” 

This caused no small rumble of surprise, for the newly-wedded couple had taken great pains to tell no one. Rikke and Falk exchanged confused looks. Irileth’s dark expression took on a poisonous scowl, as she had planned to use Balgruuf’s marriage to the widow-queen to further her own station. 

“I, ah, I…” Balgruuf failed to recover with anything approaching grace or wit. “May I ask the identity of your fortunate mate?” 

“You know him well,” Elisif said. “Why, he is Ohlir, the Dragonborn.” 

“Him?” Gaped Rikke, her heavy plate armor clanking as she shifted uncomfortably in place. “My queen, Ohlir is…he is not Nord.” 

“I have seen him, yes,” Elisif answered wryly. 

“You can’t mean to have him rule Skyrim!” 

Elisif’s tone turned frosty. “ _I_ rule Skyrim, Legate Rikke. You would do well to recall that. As to my husband, he will serve at my side and as an extension of my will. Surely you can think of no better champion than the Dragonborn himself?” 

“There are any number of good Nord men,” Rikke retorted. 

“And none are my husband.” 

Elisif turned back to Balgruuf, deploying honeyed words to balm his humiliated ego. Irileth heard none of it. Instead, she fumed with frustration. Ohlir had confounded her in the past, stealing from her the glory of the first dragon kill. The Dragonborn had closed many doors to Irileth, doors that should have led to power. An elf, she decided, could only be expected to take so much. “The queen is right, my lord,” she said, interrupting whatever Balgruuf had been saying. “The road has been long, and we should rest. Peace, and let us go.” 

* * *

Ohlir slowed his horse to a trot as he passed through the gates of Solitude, his housecarl Lydia riding close behind. “Ho, there,” he said, bringing his horse to a stop and dismounting. Handing the reins to Lydia, he said: “Take my horse to be groomed. I must to the queen with news of our arduous skirmish.” 

“Aye, and will that be the only ardor you will bring her?” 

Ohlir laughed at that; of all the souls in Skyrim, he trusted Lydia the most. So much so that he asked her to witness his secret union to Elisif. While it is true that Lydia had fought against a free Skyrim, any who died at her hands had wounds only to the front. She possessed a nobility that put her at odds with many of those in power in those days. Let it be known that she was a daughter of Skyrim. 

Ohlir left his housecarl to tend to the horses, and made his way to the Blue Palace. He nodded greetings to the citizens as he passed; to him they were virtually indistinguishable, but he knew that to them he was almost a holy figure. The guards at the Blue Palace allowed him entry without a thought, and Ohlir sough his bride in the throne room. The room was empty besides the steward, Falk. “Ah, um. Dragonborn.” Falk’s usually-shrewd mien was in disorder he seemed at a loss for words. “The queen received word that you would arrive soon, and retired to her chambers to, er, receive your report.” He coughed. “My liege.” 

That last illuminated Falk’s hesitation to Ohlir. “I see my queen has seen fit to make an announcement?” 

“To the consternation of her court, yes.” Falk nodded. 

“Good. Good! I disagreed with this subterfuge from the first. Now I can shout aloud to what has been whispering in my heart: I love Elisif. I have loved her since I first laid eyes on her, and my greatest regret is that it took me so long to open myself to her. You say she awaits me? Then I’ll go to her, too much time has been wasted already.” 

Ohlir made his way down the hall at a quick pace, his heart speeding his steps. On reaching the door of the queen’s chambers he knocked once, then three more times in rapid succession; their secret signal. A voice from inside bid him enter. Elisif sat primly on the lounger, dressed less for court than for a more personal interaction. 

“Husband,” she said with a wry grin. 

“Wife,” he replied, leaning in to kiss her with the passion of new love. “I hear our secret is no longer?” 

“It seemed a greater injury to continue the charade,” she said. “I know, there will be squabbling. But that’s a storm we can weather.” 

“We’ve been apart too long,” Ohlir said, clasping Elisif’s hands in his own and pulling her to her feet. “The world is cruel to engineer a separation with our vows only a week old. Come! I would reacquaint myself with your form. “ 

“Hold, husband!” Elisif cried with a laugh. “Cruel though it was, your mission had import, and I as your queen would have your report.” 

“Ah, of course.” The Redguard stepped away and pulled himself up to something akin to attention. “We were right to be concerned about the Khajiit caravan. Welcome and expected in every town, always mobile, and known to be well-versed in gossip. They make for consummate spies. Lydia and followed them to a home in Markarth, a rude little house hiding in the mists of the marsh. We sought to observe them in secret, but their beastly ears revealed us.” 

“You stand before me unharmed, but I cannot help fearing for your safety!” 

“They fought viciously, tooth and claw against steel. A brief, brutal engagement, but when it ended only Lydia and I remained standing.” 

“Leaving us no path forward in discovering their masters,” Elisif fretted. 

“Not true,” Ohlir said. “For among their belongings we found a bundle of missives, directing the Khajiit to gather information around Skyrim. And though the letters were not signed, I recognized their style as that of the Thalmor.” 

“Vile elves!” Elisif snapped. “Incapable of leaving well enough alone, and us with our hands bound by the Empire’s policies. I will bring this to General Tullius, perhaps it will finally stir him into action.” She sighed. “In the meantime, I would give you the hero’s return you so richly deserve.” 

* * *

A good Nord inn is one that cares little for privacy, because any true Nord despises subterfuge. Accordingly, it took Irileth a significant bag of coin to convince the innkeep to leave her and Balgruuf in privacy so she could deploy her venomous words. 

“I thought her fair, but no,” Balgruuf said. “No, she is Elisif the Foul.” 

“Blame her not, my lord. Women are so easily swayed.” Dark amusement danced in Irileth’s ruby eyes as she watched her Jarl attempt to drink away his pain. So infrequently did he drink that he had begun to slur his words on only his second mug. “You sought to woo Elisif with words, but even as cerebral as she is, Elisif is still a Nord. Actions will impress her.” She scanned the other patrons in the tavern, her gaze landing on the raven-haired warrior sitting at the bar. “Lydia had been there for some time, if the collection of steins before her were any indication. 

“What, fight her?” Balgruuf followed her look. “Housecarl to Elisif’s new husband?” 

“She is a strong warrior, and a worthy challenge,” Irileth hurried him off that point. “Best her, prove yourself to Elisif.” 

Balgruuf nodded, rising from his seat. He crossed the tavern and laid a heavy hand on Lydia’s shoulder. Thick with drink as she was, Lydia’s reaction would have done any Nord proud; she spun on her stool and drove her fist into Balgruuf’s gut, doubling him over. 

“Jarl Balgruuf…!” she gasped as he struggled to keep his feet. In that moment something approaching Nord fire flooded Balgruuf’s veins and he lashed out, throttling Lydia by the throat and crashing them both against the bar. Lydia kicked out, knocking Balgruuf’s knee out of place and tossing him bodily through the open door to the kitchen. Irileth watched in idle interest as Lydia pummeled her Jarl’s face. 

“That should do it,” she murmured. Then louder, “Lydia, no! Stay your hand, lest you kill him!” The words were less for Lydia than the barkeep and two or three other drunks, but they reached her anyway. 

“Don’t wanna kill him, just…want to drink in peace,” Lydia said. 

“Then go in peace, please!” Irileth said. Lydia stepped aside, stumbling out the front door, and Irileth leaned over Balgruuf. He was barely aware, his face a mess of blood. Irileth hunched over him such that her body hid him from the others in the bar. Silently, she drew a fine Nord dagger from her belt and pushed the tip of the blade into Balgruuf’s arm. She smothered his low groan of pain by crying “By the gods, call for a healer! She meant to kill him!” 

That Balgruuf was a Jarl meant the healer arrived with more haste than he deserved, and that word of the attack spread quickly. General Tullius and the Dragonborn arrived as the healer’s golden magic closed the last of Balgruuf’s wounds. “Godsdammit, what’s going on here?” Tullius rumbled. “Bad enough I’ve got to keep order outside the city, now you’re getting yourself stabbed inside the walls, too?” 

“General, I was assaulted unprovoked…!” 

“Who? Who, so I can clap them in chains and go back to bed.” 

“Well…it was Lydia, sir. The Dragonborn’s own housecarl.” Balgruuf said, reciting the lines Irileth had hastily whispered to him before the healer arrived. “I greeted her to offer congratulations on the success of her latest quest, and she struck me most brutally!” 

“Liar and knave!” Ohlir roared. “Lydia would never disgrace herself so!” 

“Please, sirs, peace!” Irileth cried. Truly, it is known that an elf only calls for peace when she means to put another off their guard. “My Jarl speaks honestly, and any in this tavern will swear to it.” 

Tullius let out a long, low, groan, which rose in tone as he barked to his guards. “Find her and bring her back here!” 

“General, you can’t mean…” Ohlir started. 

“She’s been accused, Dragonborn, and she’ll give her answers to that accusation,” Tullius said. 

It took the guards scant minutes to find Lydia, passed out in Ohlir’s Solitude manor, and dragged her back. Ohlir prevailed on Tullius to let him question his own housecarl. 

“Lydia,” he intoned. “Jarl Balgruuf claims you are responsible for his wounds, including the knife in his arm. His housecarl and everyone else in the tavern say this is true. Tell me this is not what happened.” 

The Nord woman shook her head, her wits still addled by drink. “On my honor, Dragonborn, I cannot vouchsafe that. I recall being roused from my drinking, and battering Jarl Balgruuf, though I’d hardly call it a battle…” 

“She admits it!” Balgruuf said. “Assault against a noble.” 

Ohlir sputtered, but his mind was not of the sort that could find a way out of this trap. 

“Dragonborn…” Tullius said. 

“I know. I know!” Ohlir shouted. “Lydia, as my housecarl, your actions reflect upon me. Assaulting a Jarl is beyond the pale. You are discharged from my service, Lydia. May you find a place among those who know not of your indiscretion.:” 

“Ohlir, no!” Lydia gasped. “I have been loyal and true, from one end of Skyrim to the other!” 

“Lecture me not on that which I know well!” Ohlir roared, his anger seeking to disguise his despair and disappointment. “Be gone!” 

* * *

Ohlir stared hard at the map of Skyrim, looking not at it but through it. His focus was so intent that it took three calls from Tullius to rouse him. “I need your focus here, Dragonborn.” 

“It is, General,” Ohlir lied. 

“Then prove it,” Tullius snapped back. “Thalmor boats sighted in the Sea of Ghosts, your Khajiit spies gathering information through the land, your own housecarl attacking a Jarl, and now you’re married to the widow-queen? This is a perfect description of an unstable situation.” He thrust a finger at Legate Rikke, waiting for orders against the far wall. “By all the realms of Oblivion, the Nords don’t know if they should venerate you for being their holy Dovahkiin or chase you from town for daring to speak to their queen!” 

“Many favor the latter,” Rikke opined. 

A knock at the door interrupted Ohlir’s response: Irileth entered at Tullius’ call. “Dragonborn. General, Legate. I bid you well. I bear tidings from Jarl Balgruuf. He plans to return to Whiterun.” 

“One problem fewer,” Tullius said.” 

“He also bided me to offer my services to you, Dragonborn. Both to cover the loss of Lydia from your service, and to demonstrate that the Jarl bears no ill-will from her attack. You’ve seen my skill in stewardship and at arms. I believe I can serve you well.” 

“I gratefully accept the Jarls offer. Being without my housecarl these last two weeks has been like being without my swordarm.” The elf smothered a triumphant smirk. “I would speak with the captains ported in Dawnstar, and gain what insights they have about these Thalmor vessels.” 

“And I’ll send yet another useless missive to the Emperor and try to warn him of the confrontation brewing,” Tullius said. 

“Well then?” Ohlir demanded of Irileth. “Prepare our horses. We have a journey before us, and I only ride hard.” 

* * *

It was on the seventeenth night following the attack on Balgruuf that Lydia found herself once again in the Blue Palace. Gone was her typical steel plate armor for she was a warrior of no one’s service. Elisif had agreed to grant her an audience in recognition of Lydia’s service to her husband, even if her husband did not recognize it himself. 

The woman before her was unlike the Lydia she knew before; now she appeared disheveled and despairing, standing with head hung. “Thank you, my queen, for agreeing to speak with me. I promise to not take much of your time.” 

“Nonsense, Lydia. We know each other well enough to be beyond titles and formal requests.” 

“Thank you, Elisif, thank you. I’ve been completely out of sorts these past days. I know that I was intemperate that night, though no more than could be expected of a Nord, and that Balgruuf is the sort to settle his scores with politics rather than fists. But to be cut off from my duty and responsibility is simply too much. Please, Elisif, speak to your husband on my behalf. Entreat him to accept me back into his loyal service.” 

And there is was; one of the basic tenants of the Nord character, to defy wrongs and set them right. Even Elisif felt this pull. “Of course, Lydia. I will prevail upon him to reverse this malicious decision.” 

* * *

Three evenings hence Ohlir and Irileth returned from Dawnstar, and Elisif ordered her steward to lay out an excellent feast in her chambers. The main table was set for Ohlir and Elisif, while the smaller table against the wall remained for Falk and Irileth. 

“How went your chest, husband?” Elisif asked, ladling for herself an ample servicing of clam chowder. 

“It is as we feared,” Ohlir said. “Rather than attack outright as they did my homeland of Hammerfell, the Thalmor seem content to slowly constrict Skyrim.” Likely because the elves fear the prowess of the Nords in a way they do not fear that of the Redguards. “Their boats make no threats, but their very presence makes the captains wary and stifles trade.” 

“I am wary of any outlanders,” Irileth spoke to Falk alone, her voice pitched soft. “But my Altmer cousins who make up the Thalmor I trust even less.” 

“ _You_ are an outlander, Irileth,” the steward returned, his tone equally low. “Or have you forgotten your pointed ears?” 

“True I was born apart, but what brought me to Skyrim and made it my home is duty.” 

“I had a visitor while you were out,” Elisif continued, unaware of the side conversation. “Lydia. She begs that you forgive her intemperance and accept her back.” 

“That is…a large thing to ask,” Ohlir rumbled. “The injuries she caused were inconsequential, and likely no more than Balgruuf deserved. But she embarrassed me. Someone in my employ attacks another, without my permission? Unacceptable.” 

Irileth watched the exchange with candid curiosity, a forkful of mutton hovering before her mouth. “Tell me, Falk, what do you think brought Ohlir to Skyrim?” 

“Why, his destiny to become the Dragonborn. To defeat Alduin.” 

“Mm-hmm.” Irileth chewed thoughtfully. “And after that? Does destiny allow for bedding your queen?” That comment hit home, for Falk rightfully struggled with the question of succession should Skyrim’s queen give birth to a miscegenated child. It troubled him greatly that Elisif did not seem to notice or care, even with the civil war such recent history. 

“I seek no harm to your lady, Falk. Rather the opposite.” 

“Perhaps this relationship could stand to be better-considered,” Falk allowed. 

“I agree whole-heartedly. I think…is there some trinket of my lord that your lady values? Some token of esteem?” 

Falk nodded. “Aye, a kerchief she treasures most deeply. What would you need it for?” 

“Never mind you that,” Irileth replied. “Best if you not know, should my plan not come to fruition.” 

“I see,” Falk said. “I’ll bring it to you late, once Masser and Secunda are at their highest.” 

“At least hear her out, husband. You owe her that much.” Ohlir scoffed at that, but Elisif pressed. “You do. How many others stood beside you when you fought draugr and dragon?” She took his hand. “When you married me?” 

“All right, all right,” Ohlir relented. “Irileth? Send word that I will see her tomorrow. No, two days hence.” 

“Thank you,” Elisif said. “I appreciate it, and know Lydia will as well.” She turned to the side table, interrupting the conspiratorial chatter. “Falk? I’ll assist you in clearing the dishes. Let’s away.” Though it may have seemed odd for a queen to act as a servant, Elisif and Ohlir were still at the point in marriage where the wife seeks to please her husband. Little did Elisif realize how fruitless her efforts would be. 

“That is odd,”” Irileth muttered loudly enough to be overheard, watching Elisif and Falk leave with the last of the dishes. 

“What’s that?” Ohlir asked. 

“Oh, nothing,” Irileth said. “It just seemed to me that dinner ended rather abruptly.” 

“Lady Elisif petitioned me to speak with Lydia and hear her out, is all.” 

“I see, I see. Well, so long as she got what she wanted.” The elf shrugged. “Just that in my experience, meals are a bit less…transactional?” 

Ohlir frowned. “Come to think on it, she did seem quite intent on Lydia.” 

“Probably nothing to dwell on,” Irileth said, but she already knew that Ohlir had begun to dwell indeed. “Well, sir, I’m for my lonely bed. While you, I trust, are bound for the bliss portion of marital bliss. Good night to you.” 

“Irileth.” Ohlir stopped her with a word. “Tomorrow, when you bring word to Lydia…be attentive when in her room.” 

“I am always attentive,” Irileth responded. “Lose no sleep to this, Ohlir. I’m certain naught will come of it.” 

* * *

The sun broke the next morning, illuminating Irileth sitting cross-legged on their bed. A long night’s scheming had substituted for her sleep, and she was prepared to turn venomous thought to malicious action. “Welcome, Azura, prince of dawn and dusk, mistress of the in-between. So-called patron of my people, the sovereign of all who equivocate and refuse to stand for one thing or the other.” Irileth stretched her arms over her head, her spine cracking. “Oh, how I loathe you, Azura. Never in my life has principled indecisiveness served me. The power to manipulate and control, aye, that’s gotten me far. I defy you, Azura, most useless of the Daedra. Instead let my way be guided by Boethiah. Daedric prince of plots, deceiver of nations! It is her domain that calls to me.” She stood, crossing the rude stone room to the desk and crouched before it, putting herself at eye level with the golden-bladed katana that rested there. “I thought myself merely an adherent to Boethiah’s path, inspired by her charge of betrayal and conspiracy. But in the deep of night, during my meditations this weapon did appear: Goldbrand, an artifact of Boethiah herself. In this I know the truth; that my plotting is not mimicking Boethiah, but an exemplar of her will. So I will abide by my lord’s wishes. And I will bring with me my patron’s gift…” she hefted the sword and affixed it to her belt. “…and my patsy’s gift.” The kerchief Ohlir had given Elisif was of the finest Hammerfell silk, dun and rose and cream in color, arranged in exquisitely complex patterns. Irileth could understand why Elisif would treasure it so. 

The kerchief secreted away in a pocket, Irileth made her way out of the Blue Palace. Lydia had found lodging in Dragon Bridge since being barred from the inn at Solitude. The bar maid hardly gave Irileth a glance as the elf crossed the tavern and rapped on the door of the sleeping quarters. Lydia answered the door slowly, but her expression lit up when she saw Irileth. 

“I bring news from our lord,” the elf said, a deceitfully earnest tone in her voice. “His lady pled your case, and he has agreed to speak with you at noon tomorrow.” 

“Oh!” Lydia cried. “Oh, Irileth! That is wonderful news. You must stay and tell me Ohlir’s comings and goings these last weeks.” 

“Of course,” Irileth said easily. “Before that, though; could you order us a repast? It was an easy journey here, but the sun sapped my strength.” 

“I will,” Lydia rose to her feet, excitement hastening her steps. “I will!” 

“Fool,” Irileth murmured. It was the work of mere moments to rifle through the Nord’s sack of clothes and hide the kerchief at the bottom. “With Boethiah’s blessing,” she said, closing the bag so that it looked as if it had never been opened. Ant that is why one should never trust Daedra in addition to the elves. Talos is the only god Men need. 

* * *

Even on days of leisure, Ohlir practiced his skill with the sword. He fought with the curious curved blade of the Alik’r, and though the routines he practiced were foreign and bizarre, none could deny his prowess. 

He danced between two practice dummies, lashing them with blows that would have laid open a living foe. He spotted Irileth approaching and ceased his assault, taking up a bucket of water and drinking deeply. What news, Irileth? Is my summons delivered?” 

“Aye, Ohlir. And I stayed a time longer, discussing affairs of the Palace at Lydia’s request.” She shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. 

“What is it?” Ohlir demanded. “Speak.” 

“I don’t know if it’s my place to mention, but…you did ask me to be attentive.” The elf shrugged. “Perhaps it’s nothing. You and Lydia adventured together for some time. Did you perchance gift her a silk kerchief in the Redguard style?” 

Ohlir went still. “A kerchief?” 

“Aye.” 

“Andy the colors: tan and pink, shot through with cream?” 

“Aye, my lord!” 

“And those colors arranged in intricate patterns based in each corner and spreading towards the center?” 

“Aye, it was by that description exactly!” Irileth exclaimed. “So it was a gift to your loyal housecarl. I thought as much, it was displayed in a place of honor on Lydia’s burden. I’m much relieved.” 

“You’re mistaken, Irileth,” Ohlir rumbled. “It was a gift to my loyal wife, when I first sought to woo her.” 

“Oh,” Irileth said. 

“But why?” Ohlir gripped his sword so hard the blade shook. Seeing this, he turned and swung viciously, burying the edge into the flank of one of the training dummies. “How did my kerchief, symbol of my devotion to my wife, come to be in someone else’s possession?” 

“For you it was a symbol of devotion,” Irileth said carefully. “Perhaps Elisif used it in the same manner.” 

“As a declaration of love?” Ohlir roared, his rage catching him. “For _Lydia_?” 

“Nords are known to be careless when their passions take them, lord,” Irileth responded blithely. “Perhaps Elisif and Lydia thought to find love apart from you.” 

“Apart from me,” Ohlir fumed. “What am I do be? A matchmaker for my housecarl and my wife?” 

“There may yet be a reason. Please, Ohlir, speak to Elisif. Hear the explanation that she gives. It may yet be this is but a misunderstanding.” Irileth pleaded. Ohlir contemplated her words, still simmering with anger, but relented. 

“I’ll go to her anon, and I’ll hear her out.” Ohlir turned on his heel and stalked out of the training yard. He didn’t bother changing out of his training clothes, instead making his way to Elisif’s throne room damp with sweat and reeking of exertion. Elisif was holding court when he arrived, and he stationed himself against the back wall with as little fanfare as the Dragonborn could manage in a room of Nords. Elisif favored him with a brilliant smile and hurried the claimants seeking her ruling along. Once the last man left, she rose from her throne, dismissing her attendants. “Husband. Ended your practice early?” 

“Irileth brought me word. I will meet with Lydia tomorrow.” 

“Wonderful news!” Elisif said, but came up short at Ohlir’s stern expression. “Is it not?” 

“You seem very intent on bringing Lydia back here.” Ohlir sneered. 

“Well…of course.” For once, Elisif’s regal bearing failed her. “Does that displease you? Do you not wish to speak with her? She has been a true friend and a valued confidant.” 

“Has she now? I’d no idea you were close.” 

“To…you, my lord,” Elisif explained falteringly. 

“Of course,” Ohlir said. “Oh, Elisif, I wondered. Do you have the kerchief I gave you when we first began our assignation?” 

“Strangely prophetic that you ask,” Elisif replied carefully. “I make sure to touch that kerchief each morning, as the most sacred relic. But this morn, it wasn’t in its expected spot.” 

“That must have been quiet distressing to you,” Ohlir suggested. 

“My husband, I swear to you, it was.” Elisif frowned. “Come, let’s back to my chambers. It’s likely hidden behind some bureau.” 

“Likely, yes,” Ohlir said. “By your leave, I’d like to see it again. That kerchief was a gift from my mother and I would have it held in the proper respect.” 

“Of course I revere your gift!” Elisif said. “I dislike this line of questioning.” 

“And I its necessity. I look forward to seeing my kerchief again.” Ohlir said. With that he left, ignoring Elisif’s confused sputtering. “Take me for a fool!” he hissed, shoving his way outside and stalking away from the Blue Palace. “At least my enemies have the boldness to face me directly, strength to strength. But this womanly deception…it is unworthy of anyone who I put my trust in.” His pace took him past the Bard’s College, heedless of the crowds around him. “Could I be wrong? Grasping at phantasms? Lydia is without guile, and Elisif, sweet, beautiful Elisif…but no. The image conjured by the ‘missing’ kerchief and Elisif’s feigned protestations are too vivid. I am not wrong, I am _wronged_. 

* * *

Lydia debated for an hour about how she should present herself. Contrarious, certainly. But sternly acknowledging her fault, clad in the steel plate armor she wore when she and Ohlir traveled together? Or more dressed in more formal, lady-like clothes to signify how seriously she took the matter. In the end, she chose the armor; it struck her as dishonest to present herself as anything other than the warrior she was. 

The Palace guards allowed Lydia in with little fuss, which she took as a good sign. A guard escorted her to one of the castle’s many privacy rooms and bade her to wait. Lydia paced the space, rehearsing what she had to say in her mind. A thought stopped her, and she removed a folded square of silk from her pocket. How Elisif’s kerchief came to be in her quarters she knew not, but it was only proper to return it. 

Ohlir entered the room with the same care he used in exploring a barrow; eyes flitting to the corners of the room seeking inert draugr, each footstep gingerly testing the stone floor for pressure traps. “The room is clear of dangers,” Lydia said with feigned ease. 

“That remains to be seen,” Ohlir replied tightly. Though his words were to Lydia, his eyes were fixed on the kerchief on the table between them. “Speak your piece.” The Dragonborn’s voice was calm, but the sparks of his distrust and frustration fanned into a conflagration. 

“I failed you,” Lydia said simply. “My temper and my intemperance took the best of me, and my actions reflected poorly upon you. That has never been my intention; I have been loyal since I first pledge myself to your service.” 

“Loyal to my face, perhaps, but what of to my back?” 

Lydia frowned. “Many wounds I’ve taken protecting your back.” 

“Feh!” Ohlir cried, his anger bubbling to the surface. “A bit of verbal legerdemain! Let us speak concretely: how did you come to be in possession of my token to my wife?” 

“I…I know not, my thane.” Lydia took a step back in surprise. “I found it, hidden in my pack, and thought it best to return it to you…” 

“Convenient, that. Elisif embarrasses herself begging on your behalf, and all the while you have been in possession of this token. Tell me true, Lydia, how many times have you laid with my wife?” 

“Never, sir!” 

“’Never, sir!’” he mocked. “And yet my wife defends you as she never defended me. And yet you have this!” Ohlir snatched up the kerchief. “Which defies any other reasonable explanation. No, Lydia, your deceit is clear.” 

“I swear on my life I have been nothing but loyal and never knew Elisif to be anything other than true.” 

“True to whom?” Ohlir scoffed. Lydia’s jaw set. “Another answer presents itself. Irileth came to me to deliver your summons, and was unattended in my room for some time. She could have left the kerchief there.” 

“So it’s a conspiracy to discredit poor Lydia, then?” Ohlir snapped. “No, there is an ulterior motive to your desire to return. So be it! I welcome you back. You first task in my service is to bring me a sacred Hist tree from the Black Marsh.” 

“You mock me.” 

Ohlir shook his head. “I’m quite serious. I want you as far from here as possible.” 

In a moment, Lydia recognized how little loyalty was valued by the men outside of Skyrim. “I mistook you, my thane. Never mind what I mistook you for. You would have me gone? Then so be it. But I will go on no fool’s errand for you.” 

“All’s the same.” 

Lydia pushed past him at that, heading through the door and rushing outside. The sting of Ohlir’s unfounded betrayal bit deep, and spurred her into a run. Gone was the Dovahkiin she fought and bled with, replaced by this paranoid shell of a man. Ohlir had been righter than he knew; there was a conspiracy aligned against Lydia, and the Queen of Skyrim as well. Her duty was, finally, clear again. 

* * *

Irileth responded to Ohlir’s summons with all haste, finding him on one of the Blue Palaces’ balconies overlooking the Sea of Ghosts. At the edge of the horizon, Irileth’s Dunmer eyes could just barely make out a ship bearing the black-and-gold sigil of the Thalmor. “There was a time when I thought all my enemies were external.” Ohlir intoned. “Alduin World-Eater. The Stormcloaks. The Volkihar and the minions of Hermaeus Mora.” He turned to Irileth, his expression set with the calm resolution of a decision made. “You were right, Irileth. My house is in disorder, and you have my thanks for showing me the truth of it.” 

“A sorrowful duty for me, sir,” Irileth said with a slight bow. 

“It will not be your last, I’m afraid.” Ohlir took the elf’s dark hand in his own. “I charge you with a mission: seek out Lydia and repay her for her betrayal. Tonight. When the deed is done, return to me in my chambers here.” 

“As you command,” she replied, barely containing her glee. “By your leave, then?” Ohlir dismissed her with a gesture, and Irileth sped to her quarters. Goldbrand was still in its place, and Irileth cackled as she strapped the sign of Boethiah’s favor to her belt. “And so the great hero falls, not from arrow or dragon’s tooth but his own mistrusting nature. Now I have the position that was denied to me so many years ago and something even greater; a viewful seat to the Dragonborn’s self-immolation.” 

Clad in her leather armor -favored by elves, who by their nature prefer to run and hide- Irileth set out to find Lydia. The Nord wouldn’t have gotten far, Irileth reasoned; a dog turned loose would stay in the lands it new, and Lydia was no different. Irileth saddled her horse and set out to the inn at Dragonbridge. 

Clouds obscured the sky as she rode, as if protecting the sun from the deeds below. Irileth was attentive to the cliff face rising to her right as this area was home to many Forsaken clans, and despite her caution her heart jumped into her throat when an arrow slammed in to the flagstone in front of her horse with a mighty _crack_. The horse reared and Irileth, a poor and inexperienced rider, tumbled free and closely avoided the beast’s stomping hooves. She regained her feet as her steed raced off down the trail. 

“Face me, Dunmer.” 

On the ridge above Lydia stood, bow in hand. She dropped easily from the height, glowering at the elf as she rose. 

“I’m surprised you missed your first shot,” Irileth said with false playfulness. Without a bow of her own, she drew Goldbrand. 

“Killing from ambush is for cowards and elves,” Lydia replied. She tossed her bow aside in favor of her ax and shield. “You’ve poisoned my thane’s mind, turned him against his duty and his love. That is why you will die.” 

“But it is your thane who sent me to you!” Irileth said in honeyed tones. “He said he’d made a mistake and asked me to deliver a message.” 

Hesitation crossed Lydia’s expression. “A message? What is it?” 

Irileth struck like a viper, lunging forward with her Daedric sword. Though Lydia’s armor deflected much of the blow, Goldbrand came away slick with blood. “That you are too foolish to live.” 

Nord rage overtook Lydia, and though Irileth’s elven agility allowed her to stay ahead of every attack, she quailed at the ferocity of the other woman’s righteous fury. This was the Lydia who fought vampires, dragons, and Daedra in defense of Ohlir, and now she fought to defend him against another sort of beast. “Stand your ground and fight, coward!” she roared. 

“I’d rather keep my head, thank you,” Irileth retorted, ducking under a swing. In an instant she saw an opening: the momentum of Lydia’s swing left her torso undefended. The elf sprang, intent on eviscerating the Nord, only to find herself driven to the ground by a tremendous blow from Lydia’s shield. 

“I’m slow and angry, Dunmer,” Lydia snarled, “not stupid.” 

Irileth scrambled back, trying desperately to gather her addled wits. “Wait! Please, I swear I’ve done nothing more than Ohlir’s bidding! It is he who ordered your death!” 

“His voice, your words, no doubt.” Lydia advanced menacingly. “Make peace with whatever you worship. 

A loose flagstone shifted under Irileth’s hand and she seized it, hefting and throwing it all in one graceless motion. Lydia’s shield rose to deflect the trajectory away from her head and Irileth threw herself bodily at Lydia, driving the tip of Goldbrand into the inside of the Nord’s thigh and brutally tearing the blade free. Lydia’s roar became a scream as she toppled, crashing face-down onto the stone path as Irileth rolled clear. 

“You’re wrong, Lydia,” Irileth snarled. You are slow, and angry, and stupid.” She approached the prone Nord from behind, and planted her foot on her back. “As all your kind are, as all Men are. Your death wasn’t necessary for my revenge against Ohlir, but makes it sweeter still.” Irileth raise Goldbrand high, point aimed for Lydia’s spine, and brought the blade down with all the strength in her frail body. If Lydia had any final words, she was not granted the dignity to utter them. 

“Sweet indeed,” Irileth muttered, pulling the weapon free. 

* * *

It was well into the night before Ohlir returned to the chambers he shared with Elisif. He expected to be furious, overwhelmed with emotion when he saw Elisif again, but instead felt nothing but preternatural calm as he watched her brush her hair at her vanity. 

“Oh!” Elisif startled when she saw him. “Are you a ghost, to move so quietly?” 

“A ghost of the man I was, perhaps.” Ohlir crossed the room and sat at the foot of the bed. Elisif turned on her stool to face him. “You have slain me, Elisif. With your faithlessness.” 

“From where comes this unwarranted suspicion?” Elisif demanded, her wifely patience frayed. “I have said it time and again and will continue saying it. I have been nothing but true. You are my husband and I love only you.” 

“That is false and you are false.” Ohlir shook his head. He dug into his packet and removed the kerchief, letting it fall form his fingers to the floor between them. “Lydia already as much as admitted to your assignations.” 

“That’s how it’s to be, then?” Elisif said, low and tight. “You make accusations that only make sense to your fevered nightmares, and the rest of us are expected to smile and indulge Sheogorath’s folly?” 

“ _Wuld Nah Kest_.” In an instant Ohlir was on Elisif, slamming her into her vanity. His hands tightened around her throat. “I am sorry, Elisif. I am sorry I trusted a whore’s promise of fidelity. It’s not a mistake I’ll make again.” 

“By…Talos…” Elisif gasped out her last breaths. “Only…true…” 

“Yes, yes, I’ve heard it.” Elisif’s body went limp under him, and Ohlir continued to squeeze; he had ended a great number of lives in his day, and he knew the effort it took to overcome a Nord’s will to live. 

A knock sounded at the door, and Falk the steward let himself in. “My queen? I heard a great crash…” He stopped at the scene before him and shouted out to the hall: “Alarm! Alarm! The queen is slain!” 

“It is a just ending,” Ohlir said, casting the limp corpse onto the bed. “Your queen was untrue to her husband. Look! The token of my love, given away to another lover.” 

Two guards in Imperial armor and Legate Rikke arrived at Falk’s call. At the sight of the dead queen, the guards drew their blades. “Skyrim has seen enough ‘just’ regicide in recent years,” Falk said. “And that kerchief is your tell-tale of her infidelity? I removed that from my queen’s quarters’ at Irileth’s behest for what purposes I know not but now fear!” 

As if summoned, the dark elf appeared in the doorway. “What is the commotion…oh! Ohlir, what have you done?” 

“Seize her,” Rikke snapped. “And you, Dragonborn, stay where you are.” 

Ohlir didn’t hear the Legate’s words. “Are Falk’s words true, Irileth? Were Elisif and Lydia’s protestations true?” 

“Of course they were true, you preening fool!” Irileth laughed, straining against the guards restraining her.” Neither had any occasion to harm you, but your arrogance and your vast insecurity made fertile ground. How did you imagine yourself in love when you are so utterly faithless yourself that you believe any insinuations passed to you?” 

“No,” Ohlir cried. “No, no, it cannot be.” 

“Take the elf away,” Rikke snapped. “Tullius will decide her fate, but mark my words it will be execution for her.” 

“Her death by another’s hand will never satisfy me!” Ohlir shouted, shouldering past Rikke. He grasped Goldbrand’s hilt and tugged the blade free from its scabbard, only to jerk it forward again, burying the sword deep into Irileth’s viscera. 

“Ah! Bastard son of Hammerfell!” Irileth collapsed to the ground, her blood soaking into the fine rug. “I am slain, aye, but who has done the most damage to your loved ones?” 

With that she lay still, and Ohlir stared emptily at the weapon in his hands. “She’s right, in that. For it is I who have brought this trouble to my own house.” He touched the gold-hued blade. “I recognize this artifact! Goldbrand, wielded at the whim of Boethiah the Betrayer. Truly this is my sword now, for who has betrayed more than me?” He slowly shifted his grip, and raised his arms to point the blade at his own chest. “Elisif…I know not where we go when we die, but I hope to see you again in Sovngarde.” 

“Nothing in Elisif’s life earned her Sovngarde,” Rikke intoned, making no move to stop the Dragonborn. “And despite your accomplishments, you’ve proved yourself a feckless coward. I say it’ll be Oblivion for the both of you.” 

Ohlir drove the blade home with despairing strength, collapsing against his slain wife’s bed. 

The room was silent for a long moment. “Fools,” Falk eventually muttered. 

“Yes,” Rikke said. “The foolishness of men and Men to believe that the perception of a slight warrants violence, and their easy willingness to believe the worst of those who love them the best.” 

“This is not endemic of our kind,” Falk protested. “Most are kind and fair.” 

“Perhaps.” Rikke shook her head. “And yet that excuses nothing. Lives lost over an easily-dismissed lie. And with Skyrim’s queen among them, we face another interregnum and inevitable civil war. The Thalmor will laugh themselves breathless when they learn the deeds done this day.” She turned to the guards. “Well? Wake General Tullius. There is much to do if we are to salvage this catastrophe.”


End file.
